The basement was lit by a dim, bluish glow. Rows of glass cylinders stood in neat ranks, each filled with an unfamiliar liquid and labeled with numbers and data. Within them floated pale, round forms—cultured organisms that looked like plump, pulsing spheres of flesh.
Orochimaru waited at the center table, eyes bright with that peculiar hunger reserved for discoveries and experiments. When Boruto and Mitsuki arrived—teleported in by a discreet application of the Flying Thunder God—both felt the hush of the lab: precise, clinical, and alive with possibility.
"Welcome to my lab, Boruto-kun," Orochimaru said with a smile that never reached his eyes.
Boruto returned the bow with a casual half-smile. He had seen enough laboratories and strange creations to know when something important was under glass. Orochimaru led them to the experimental table and pointed out several vessels. These were different from the others: wrapped in young shoots, vibrant saplings sprouted from the fleshy spheres inside, drinking the nutrient solution as if it were sunlight.
"The new Hashirama-cell culture passed its tests," Orochimaru explained. "Do you want to see?"
A corner of Boruto's mouth twitched. "Show me."
Orochimaru snapped his fingers. Machinery hummed, valves opened, and in the dim recess of the lab, something white and humanoid unfurled—an engineered Zetsu, but not the crude mass Boruto had seen in wartime reports. This one looked made, sculpted: a pale figure that gave off the scent of fresh earth and sap. Orochimaru's voice grew eager.
"This White Zetsu is a rushed model, designed to demonstrate Wood Release. Its lifespan outside the nutrient bath is short—five to seven days—but with chakra it can act. Watch."
Boruto pressed his palm lightly to the creature. The Zetsu's eyelids twitched, then opened—brown irises clearing like a forest waking. It formed seals with surprising speed.
"Wood Release: Advent of a World of Trees."
Roots and trunks surged from the laboratory floor and walls, saplings blossoming around them. The lawns are filled with the sharp, green scent of growing things. Buds appeared but did not open; Orochimaru had deliberately kept the bloom from releasing whatever toxins a full flower might spread in a cramped room.
"Not bad," Orochimaru murmured. "Shall we proceed with implantation?"
Boruto didn't wait. He lay on the table. A syringe drew from one of the glass dishes—bluish-green blood that shimmered like new shoots—and Orochimaru injected twenty millilitres into Boruto's vein.
They watched the body for rejection. Boruto's skin gleamed faintly; he sat up after a long, precise silence and flexed his fingers. The change was subtle but real—his chakra felt fuller, the pulse in his wrists stronger.
"This is nearly a Six Paths-level physique," Orochimaru breathed. Greed and admiration braided together in his tone. "You accept foreign lineages better than any subject I've seen."
Boruto tested himself. The increase in chakra was undeniable; his skin sat a touch tighter, as if the body had been tuned. He hummed once, pleased. Orochimaru could hardly contain himself.
"Let's look at the Sharingan research," Orochimaru said, leading them to a smaller, more guarded chamber. One container sat behind reinforced glass. Inside another Zetsu floated—white, but with something different: two red eyes, each bearing a single tomoe.
"You cultivated this with Hashirama tissue as a base," Boruto said slowly, eyeing the eyes. "You used Madara's remnants."
"I took what I could," Orochimaru replied. "But these vessels—this one in particular—show potential. The Senju–Uchiha combination is complex, but in theory it can open paths that single lineages cannot."
Boruto frowned. "Potential for what—an Eternal Mangekyō? That requires unique circumstances. Two Mangekyō, the same bloodline…"
Orochimaru's smile tightened. "Perhaps another form—something beyond what present genotypes allow. A kaleidoscopic evolution of the Sharingan. The line between taboo and discovery is thin."
Mitsuki, who had grown quiet beside them, frowned in thought. The historical echoes were there: Madara's revival, the disasters that followed. Boruto's mind chased the implications and slammed on the brakes.
"You used Madara's tissue," Boruto said. "If this is true, you're mixing relics of the Uchiha with living Hashirama cells. That's—dangerous."
"Danger is the language of progress," Orochimaru answered softly. "But the problem we've faced is practical: no subject could withstand the awakening. The Sharingan's toll is heavy. But your body—your Six Paths affinity—may be the necessary bridge."
Boruto's face darkened. "Even if the genetics line up, the Mangekyō requires emotional catalysts. Transferring or manufacturing that… That's not something you can simply splice into a vial."
Orochimaru's laughter had no warmth. "You remind me of fandom's caution. Tell me, Boruto—are you cautious because you fear the cost, or because you cannot imagine the price?"
"The price is a taboo," Boruto said. "We don't have the right to break it lightly."
Orochimaru's eyes glittered. "Taboos are a human word. Nature has no scruples; it only reveals consequences. We will learn the consequences."
Boruto glanced at Mitsuki, then back at Orochimaru. The lab hummed around them: living experiments, nutrient baths, the low thrum of machines. The air tasted like soil and possibilities.
"And if it fails?" Boruto asked.
"Then we try to understand why," Orochimaru replied. "If it succeeds, we understand how much farther a body can go."
Boruto stood very still, looking into the glass where the single Sharingan blinked in the nutrient. He felt the weight of lineage and history pressing on the choices ahead. The room was full of answers that demanded payment.
Orochimaru leaned forward, voice low and certain. "You can accept any blood, Boruto. You are the most adaptable subject I've seen. The Sharingan's evolution—perhaps even beyond the Rinnegan—might be within reach because of that."
Boruto let out a short, humorless breath. "This isn't a toy. You can't treat things like experiments without thinking who pays the cost."
"And who decides that?" Orochimaru asked. "Scientists ask. The Warriors decide later. You—what would you decide, Boruto Uzumaki?"
The question hung between them like a blade.
Boruto looked at the glass again, at the small, red eyes watching them.
Orochimaru's voice dropped to a whisper, almost fond. "We push the boundary, or we watch the boundary push back. Which will you be?"
Boruto's answer was a stillness, a tightening of the jaw. He did not speak it aloud, but his posture answered: he would walk the line, if only to understand it.
Orochimaru smiled, that thin, satisfied look of a man who has found a willing subject. "Good. Then we shall begin the next stage."
Outside the glass, the cultivated eye watched, patient and cold. Inside the laboratory, a new calculation had already begun.
It breaks a taboo in genetics.
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